The Water's Lovely (v5)

by Ruth Rendell

  ‘Andrew Campbell-Sedge fancies twelve-year-olds. Haven’t you noticed?’

  She would live for ten years, thought Marion. At least ten. There had been a man of a hundred and nine having a birthday party on breakfast television that morning. Was she going to stay with Avice in spite of this setback? Perhaps for a while. She remembered the will. That still stood and would endure. But she wouldn’t allow herself to be a slave, tied to the place. It was time for her poor old father to have a serious illness which required her frequent presence. She was thinking along these lines, wondering whether to give him cancer or coronary heart disease, when her mobile rang. The sound it made was the first few bars of ‘The Entry of the Queen of Sheba’ and Avice asked her rather crossly if she’d left the wireless on.

  Her caller was Barry Fenix. ‘Do you remember me?’

  ‘Of course I do, Barry. Once seen, never forgotten is what I always say. How are you?’

  ‘Fighting fit as ever. I was just wondering if you’d pop over and have a look at the old lady. I saw her in the garden this morning and I thought she was looking a bit frail.’

  ‘I could do,’ said Marion. ‘Just let me consult the diary.’

  ‘The’ diary sounded so much more official and important than ‘my’. She did a little dance on the spot, the cough linctus temporarily forgotten, before picking up the phone again. ‘Say five o’clock this afternoon?’

  ‘You couldn’t manage anything before that?’

  Not if she was wise. Not if she gave an hour to Irene, then went in next door at drinks time. If she hung about a bit, dinner was likely to be suggested … ‘Five it must be, I’m afraid, Barry. I’ve a very full day.’

  It might, in any case, be wise to turn her attention back to Irene, never mind the insults. They were incidental to the job. Avice, after all, could change her will at any time. Will changing was almost an occupation with her. Irene disliked her daughter-in-law, was sure to fall out with her son. Marion told Avice that the call on her mobile was from a paramedic who had found her poor old father unconscious on the floor. She must go to him at once and couldn’t say when she’d be back.

  The tube journey from Pinner to Finchley Road was a long one and Marion never cared for the enforced sedentary position it demanded but she had bought the Evening Standard to help her pass the time. There she saw that a man was helping the police in their enquiries into the murder of a blonde girl called Eva Simber. The West End Werewolf, possibly.

  In the big Sainsbury’s round the corner from Lithos Road she bought herself a packet of hair dye in a shade called Poinsettia and a pair of rubber gloves. Barry had remarked on her hair and its lovely natural shade. Last time the tinting and cutting had been done by Kevin at Have a Nice Hair Day but she was far too short of funds to go in for that again. While she waited for the evil-smelling pink paste to take effect her mind dwelt once again on Fowler and the cough linctus and the awful waste of all that morphine going down his throat. That label she’d put on the bottle would have had little effect on someone whose speciality was using substances most people wouldn’t dream of taking internally.

  Marion put on a very tight green top, a boho chic skirt and the slippers that looked like ballet shoes. It was youthful attire which suited her girlish figure. No coat would be needed this fine afternoon. Of course she would be a little late, it was always best with men, and she decided to walk, or rather to skip, all the way to Chudleigh Hill through the pretty backstreets, all their trees in full leaf and some with reddening berries. Marion had never been interviewed for a newspaper or magazine but if she had she would have said when asked what her secret was, ‘I’m an optimist, you see. I always look on the bright side.’ She imagined how lovely her hair must look, ruby red and gleaming in the sunshine. Anyone else would have brooded on that morphine business but she wasn’t one for rancour. You had to move on. You had to think of yourself, a useful maxim.

  ‘I’ve a confession to make,’ Barry said when he answered the door to her. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the old lady. I made it up.’

  ‘Mr Fenix!’

  ‘Barry,’ said Barry. ‘I wanted to see you again and I didn’t feel quite up to saying that on the blower.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what to say. You are awful. I think I’ll just pop next door all the same. Just for half an hour.’

  ‘Not a minute more, mind.’

  Nothing like this had happened to Marion for years. She wanted to dance and sing and shout but she had to walk decorously up to Irene’s front door, ring the bell and put on a concerned face. Irene was in a fairly good mood. The Crosbies had asked her to go with them to Crete for a fortnight in September.

  ‘Well, “asked” isn’t the word. Begged me is really what it was. I said I’d think about it. I don’t really know if my back would stand it.’ Irene opened her workbox and took out a half-finished string of blue beads. What does she do with all that rubbish, Marion asked herself. ‘I’ve been suffering from a lot of flatulence lately. That wouldn’t be very convenient in an hotel, would it?’

  ‘Any sign of Edmund moving into his new flat yet?’ asked Marion, stirring it.

  ‘You don’t suppose they ever tell me anything, do you?’

  Three-quarters of an hour later she was back ringing Barry’s doorbell. She rightly thought that what he liked her for was her vivacity and this evening she felt more vivacious than she had for weeks. She smiled, she laughed at his jokes, she admired all his possessions. Gin and tonic helped. He said his favourite type of woman was ‘your natural redhead’. She was a little vixen and he was ready to bet she had a hot temper. At seven he suggested he take her out to dinner in Hampstead. It was a good dinner and neither tartufo nor pear and almond tart was on the menu.

  He drove her home to Lithos Road. Marion was praying all the way that Fowler wouldn’t be there, sitting on the doorstep waiting for her, and her prayer was answered. Barry kissed her wetly before opening the door for her to get out of the car. She hadn’t liked it but, waving gaily to him, she reminded herself that there was no gain without pain.

  Ismay found out from Pamela.

  ‘It’s just been on the news that they’re questioning another man in the Eva Simber murder,’ she said.

  Ismay held herself very still. It felt as if the colour had gone from her face. ‘Who did you say?’

  ‘You know, Eva Simber, the girl who was murdered in Kensington Gardens – oh, it must be at least a week by now. Don’t you ever see a newspaper, Issy? Don’t you watch television?’

  ‘Not much if I can help it. You say Eva Simber was killed last week?’

  ‘That’s right. You didn’t know her, did you?’

  ‘I met her once,’ said Ismay distantly.

  She got herself something to eat, found a half-full bottle of wine in the fridge and went to sit with her mother. The shock of hearing of the death of an enemy can be as great as when the victim is your friend.

  Beatrix said dreamily, ‘The earth shall be filled with the glory of God as the waters cover the sea.’

  ‘The waters are the sea, Mum.’

  Ismay wondered why she bothered, for Beatrix took no notice but removing a lump of chewing gum from her mouth and squeezing it in her fingertips like plasticine, abandoned hymns for the Book of Revelation. ‘Blood came out of the winepress,’ she remarked in quite a cheerful tone, ‘even unto the horse bridles, by the space of a thousand and six hundred furlongs.’

  Eva Simber was dead. Ismay repeated these words over to herself. She later felt it was to her credit that instead of rejoicing, she thought, how terrible, how awful. A woman walking her dog had found the body. The paper said police had DNA from Eva’s fingernails where she had scratched her attacker but it would take some time to try to match it with any possible suspects. A second man was helping with enquiries. There was no mention of Andrew.

  The police must also have been questioning him, Ismay thought. They’d be bound to talk to the boyfriend and Andrew had been Eva’s boyfriend.
There was no good deceiving herself over that.

  She picked up the phone and dialled Heather’s mobile. She and Edmund were in a wine bar on their way home from work. ‘Did you know?’

  ‘Of course we knew, Issy. I knew you wouldn’t – well, not at first. You never read the papers or see the news.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t want to upset you.’

  ‘Upset me?’

  Heather said nothing.

  ‘Why did you think you’d upset me? Didn’t you think I’d be glad? Oh, I know I’m awful. I’m terrible being glad someone’s dead. But didn’t you know I’d be glad? Now she’s gone Andrew will come back to me.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Edmund after she had rung off.

  They finished their drinks and went out. Under a shady overhanging tree Heather lifted up her face and smiled at him. He felt overwhelmed with love for her, a feeling so strong that it made him breathless. She came into his arms with a sigh of pleasure and he kissed her as passionately as if they were in their own home, away from all eyes. ‘I love you so much.’

  ‘Not more than I love you,’ said Heather.

  The street in Battersea where Ivan lived was some way from Kensington Gardens but still Pamela felt nervous walking to his house from a distant bus stop. Women are always on edge after the murder of a woman in the city where they live, even if it didn’t take place on the doorstep.

  Ivan had said last time they met, get a permanent live-in carer for your sister and we could get a real relationship going. She had asked him what he meant and he said, ‘Well, move in together.’

  ‘I’m not ready for that yet, Ivan.’

  ‘Why aren’t you?’ he said. ‘At our age we can’t afford to hang about. We know how we feel about each other.’

  Did they? Did she? ‘I couldn’t leave Beatrix with a carer. For one thing, I couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t those selfish nieces of yours help with that? I’d be prepared to help.’

  She was amazed. After the business with the minicab and his unwillingness to eat out, she had put him down as mean. His meanness had been the main thing she saw as a stumbling block to a permanent relationship. Yet here he was offering to pay towards the care of her sister.

  ‘It’s good of you to think of it.’ As she said it she seemed to see Beatrix’s poor blank face, the pale eyes that recognised no one for more than a few minutes at a time, and to hear that voice uttering the ancient pronouncements of a fanatic. ‘It’s very good of you,’ she said, and then, weakly, ‘I’ll think about it.’

  She had thought about it. She had thought of little else. He must love her if he, a man careful with money, could make an offer like that. Why did it matter so much to her that while he’d take her to pubs, he was so reluctant to go to any restaurant superior to a workman’s café? For years she had eaten every meal at home with Beatrix. Restaurants were hardly essential in her life. It was true that his constant harping on what he called ‘gravy train passengers’, those whose sole income was derived from state-funded benefits, grated on her. But it was a small matter to set against his attractions, his fondness and need for her, and his recent generous offer. Why then was she going to say no?

  ‘I want to go on seeing you, Ivan,’ she said when she was inside his flat and, to her surprise, he had produced a bottle of wine and a packet of crisps that looked as if it had been around for a long while. ‘It’s just that I think it’s early days to move in together. Organising something satisfactory for my sister would take time. It might not even be possible.’

  He raised his glass, said, ‘Cheers,’ then, ‘You know, I’m not altogether sure I believe in this sister of yours. I wonder if you haven’t invented her.’

  ‘Oh, Ivan, why would I?’

  ‘How about to create a distance between us? To make it impossible for us to be really close?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t invented her.’

  ‘I’m not convinced. I think I’ll come and see her. See if she really exists. I could take you home tonight, couldn’t I? As a matter of fact, I ought to take you home. It’s a bit remiss of me not to.’

  She had resolved not to bring the food this evening. It was a habit she shouldn’t get into. He surprised her again by producing two fillet steaks, frozen peas and carrots and two panna cottas from a supermarket.

  ‘Not fish and chips, then?’

  She smiled as she said it but he didn’t return her smile. The idea of his taking her home was very unwelcome. Meeting Beatrix didn’t matter. She would stare at him or not stare at him, closing her eyes. But Ismay would be there. Pamela had never before shied away from introducing any friend to her nieces but now the fear of what he might say to Ismay, what effect his manner and way of speaking might have on Ismay, made her wince. Heather would be even worse. She was less tolerant. When she realised she expected those close to her to tolerate Ivan, Pamela felt very miserable.

  She cooked the food and they ate it. Ivan talked about his job and the various disagreements, not to say vendettas, he had with colleagues. People were envious of him and therefore had it in for him. Pamela had always believed that when a man claims to have many enemies the fault must to some extent lie with him but she couldn’t let herself adhere to that when it was Ivan. If she was going to think like that she might as well go home now and never come back.

  They went to bed. Eating supper, going to bed, had become routine. She thought it very early in their relationship to get into a routine but she could tell he was a man who liked an orderly life, geared to the clock, and she couldn’t really fault that. The pleasures of lovemaking were overshadowed for her by the knowledge that he was coming home with her, Ismay would meet him and she shouldn’t be thinking like this.

  It didn’t happen. He broke with his timetable and fell asleep. She got up, wrote him a note that said, I’ll phone. See you soon. Love, Pam, and went out into the street to begin the frightening walk to the bus stop. A few people about would have made it less sinister than this emptiness. There were always cars. At night, she thought, it was easy to have the illusion that the cars, the streams of them, were driverless automatons, moving of their own volition. One single person appearing ahead of her, walking towards her, or behind and following her, would be the terrifying thing, just one. This wasn’t the West End, of course, it was too far south, but now she remembered that one of the Werewolf’s victims had been walking on Wimbledon Common when she felt his hands on her throat.

  Surely Ivan shouldn’t have condemned her to this? She remembered that it was she who had left him. He had been asleep. He hadn’t sent her out into the night alone. And hadn’t she spent the whole evening hoping he wouldn’t come with her?

  The bus came and she got on to it.

  More prudently than her aunt, Ismay hailed a taxi the short distance to home. It was twenty past eleven. She was wondering if Andrew still lived in Fulham or if he had moved in with Eva Simber. Suppose she were to phone him on his old number? Or on his mobile? She could phone like an old friend, just say she was sorry about Eva. No, she couldn’t. Her voice wasn’t capable of that.

  For the first time for a long while she went to bed without having a preliminary drink. She slept more soundly than she had for weeks.

  CHAPTER 19

  It occurred to Edmund that the police might come to see his wife. After all, she wasn’t a friend of Eva Simber’s but she had set out to meet and talk to her in St James’s Park, and had made at least three phone calls to her. A woman phoning another woman asking her to give up her boyfriend for the sake of her sister was hardly a normal way of making contact with someone. He said so to Heather.

  ‘Do you think so?’ Heather said.

  ‘They may want to ask you if Eva ever mentioned to you a man who’d threatened her or stalked her. Something like that. They’ll ask everyone who knew her that sort of thing.’

  ‘I didn’t really know her.’

  ‘I’m just warning you, darling, so y
ou won’t be alarmed if the police come.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m the alarmed sort,’ said Heather.

  Ismay phoned later in the day to ask Heather if she thought Andrew should somehow be told she was waiting for him, had never given up on him.

  ‘No, I don’t. That would do more harm than good. You’ll just have to be patient.’

  ‘So you do think he’ll come back to me?’

  ‘Just be patient, Issy. Wait for him to come back or not come back. You haven’t much choice, have you?’

  The police never came.

  * * *

  Working the area of the West End he called his ‘manor’, Fowler left Oxford Street behind him – useless for really good stuff – and made his way down South Molton Street. He was having a bad morning and suspected that the bins had been recently emptied by Westminster City Council. It was the wrong time of day for them but that meant little. They could have changed their time or taken on temporary staff ignorant of the rules. He crossed Bond Street and Regent Street, and made a foray into Soho, far from his usual haunts. A bin in Old Compton Street, surrounded by a detritus of chicken bones and call girl cards, yielded a broken flowerpot and a cigarette packet labelled Smoking Kills and containing eight dog ends.

  Fowler trailed southwards. Months, even years, had passed since he had investigated the bins of Leicester Square but there was a chance one of those binge drinkers who infested the place by night might have left behind a half-empty lager can or even dregs in a wine bottle. Glad that he had made it last, he had a little morphine left in the cologne bottle and on the steps of St Martin-in-the-Fields he sat down and sipped it. Not for the first time he wondered why Marion had kept morphine sulphate. Not for his use, certainly. She might be a secret addict. If that were so, there would be more in the flat, concealed in hiding places he knew nothing of.

  It wasn’t long before the visions started. Troops of white-robed pilgrims walking along the kind of paved streets Fowler’s imagination placed in Babylon or Nineveh, headed for a vast stone palace from some obscure period of prehistory. Skull-faced figures sat about on broken rocks and read from parchment scrolls. He was unaware of falling asleep but very aware of a foot prodding his ribs and moving him on. Only half awake, he muttered to himself, ‘Buck up, Fowler, wakey-wakey,’ drifted up St Martin’s Lane, wove across the street between cars with unsympathetic drivers, was nearly run over in Little Newport Street where Marion had once told him their grandfather had been born, and finally came to rest, leaning against the wall of one of the great cinemas of Leicester Square.